A good argument
by Tatiana1
Summary: The Archdemon was slain. The Ultimate sacrifice was performed. All party members have left Alistair's palace - but one. Yet.


**A good argument**

**Disclaimer**: Not mine, all characters are property of Bioware.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

Damn. "Alistair the Obvious" they will call me.

"It's evident, no?"

Indeed. Bag on the floor, clothing on the bed. The formal attire the majordomo had so much pain to find for him in time for my wedding (no elf was a royal honor guest for some hundreds of years at least) is plied neatly near the head of the bed - he is leaving it behind.  
Daggers on the table.  
Some strange potion set on the vanity, and an array of bottles - poisons, no doubt.

"What I meant to ask is why are you leaving?"

He is sitting on the bed, stuffing something in the bag, and doesn't turn.  
His voice is like the deathroot extract he's so fond of. I've read somewhere it has a sugary first taste - and a bitter undercurrent. Funny how we always remember the strangest stuff we've read as children.

"My, I didn't know you had it in you! Keeping a known assassin at your court will sure make everybody sweat. And here I believed you will rule kindly."

He isn't wrong. Isn't right either. I don't really give a damn about everybody's sweat... but Anora will love the innuendo, I'm sure. Still, it's a political stuff. Don't care.  
Not yet.

"If I don't give a damn about it, why should you?"

"Crows will give a damn about such rumor," he says. "You should too."

Right again. Face it Alistair, he was trained for it. Persuasion, innuendo, twisting the argument till it bites the other party. The only way of winning an argument with him is a punch in the mouth. The option obviously unavailable.

"But... just to rumor you, mind you... where are you going? Orlais?"

"Antiva."

Eh?

"Eh?"

He shrugs.

"Crows will not let me be, no? Offense is the best defense."

Sure. For someone like me. And I did see that tremor, when his shoulders moved. The wound from Archedemon's tail must still be healing.  
And... and I'm a king or what? It has to be in the laws somewhere, that you can't turn your back to the king, when the said king is talking to you.

"Turn round, will you? I'm tired talking to your back."

"Then don't."

As I've said, no chance to win. And no proper awe for my kingship. Which is not surprising, considering that in the last battle he managed to save my ass at least twice (and it is not repeatable in decent company what he has said in response to my thanks).

So I round the bed, take a stool from the vanity and sit down before him. He leaves the bag alone, and looks at me.  
He is calm.  
And he seems... old. The lines on his face are so pronounced that I'm surprised enough to blurt out: "How old are you?"

Aha, surprise! He didn't expect this. But recovers quickly, damn him.

"Why? Are you afraid I'm underage?"

I hate this sly smile of his. Hate it. He hates my innocent look though, so I bring it forward at full intensity.

"Don't know really, it have just hit me, that I never thought to ask. And you elves still live longer then humans, right? So I thought..."

"24," he says, and returns to his bag.

Good, because a king with a dropping jaw is not very... kingly.  
He is younger than me. Eight years younger, no less.  
But then, to be so skilled in his trade, he had to begin...

"Turn it off."

"What?"

"Your pity gaze. Off. Don't need it."

"Sure. Sorry."

He sighs. Looks at me again. And I don't like his eyes, 'cause they are tired, and that is so unlike him, that it's frankly scary.

"Alistair. What do you want?"

You want direct? Direct I can do.

"Stay."

"Why?"

"Because they will kill you in Antiva."

"May be. So?"

Fuck. That's scary. He is not supposed to be suicidal. He is supposed to be carefree, sex hungry and sly.

"...Well, wasn't it you who said that death is boring, so better avoid it?"

"Well, maybe I've already got the excitement of my life. Downed the Archdemon - there is nothing to top it, no?"

And he is right again. Even on two accounts, 'cause it was him at the ballista who wounded that damned big, black and very quick dragon enough for me to cut through the scales to the artery, pinning the beast to the ground for good.  
For Daylen to...  
Shit. Don't think in that direction, Alistair. Just. Don't.  
So I say the first thing that comes to mind and is somewhat humorous, to move from that blasted rooftop.

"Well, you know, they say that the biggest adventure in life is marriage, so you have still..."

And there's suddenly nothing but steel and blizzard in his eyes.

"Shut up."

No accent.

"Get out"

No accent what so ever. And I've seen more warmth on the darkspawn faces.  
And then I finally remark the necklace around his neck - mixed gold and silver treads.  
So there the little silver and gold logs have gone, the gifts Daylen gave him...  
Shit. Oh shit.

"Zev. I'm sorry. I didn't know. Honest. I didn't. I'm sorry. Had no idea..."

He turns from me, as if to take a garb from the bed. Pauses.

"There was nothing to know," the voice is calm, the accent is almost nonexistent - is it another mask then? "One night stand. An... experiment, I presume. He was freshly from the Tower, got curious. Liked it fine, though."

But liked Leliana better.  
...Things I didn't know about my best friend.  
Things I still don't know about my last remaining friend.

"Stay," I say. "Please. I can't... "

He turns.

"Face the politics alone?" the accent is back, and there is a fair attempt on a smirk.

Why it tears me apart to see him putting the I-don't-care face on again?  
I can't help, that's why.  
Grief is not a monster you can slay. But slaying monsters can help. How's that for a pun, eh?  
...But there is actually a non idiotic thought in it, strange as it may seem. Even bordering on intelligent. It's even something Anora would love. Go, Alistair!

"I have an idea," I say. "And it's a good idea."

"Really?" one skeptical eyebrow rises high.

"Yeah. You know, there are Gray Wardens coming from Orlais, to reestablish the order, right?"

"Only every third talks about it in the palace, a very difficult rumor to catch."

"But I thought about it, and you know... they are from Orlais. Sure, Loghain was a... a... "

"Bad man," he smiles, and it feels good to laugh a little.

"Yeah. Traitor. Crazy. But. What if his paranoia wasn't so paranoiac? I mean, Grey Wardens ARE out of the politics, but..."

"But what if the politics don't know of it?"

Thanks. Didn't know how to say that.

"Yes. Something like that."

"Quite possible. But if you want me to become..."

"No! I mean, sure, if you want, but you don't so you don't have... and here I'm blabbing again, no need to look so superior. Anyway, no, this is not my idea. But you are the best with daggers, poisons and such, no? And the coming party can't have many instructors skilled in that, so..."

"So you want me as an instructor in Amaranthine. To help them train recruits. And to spy for you."

"Yeah."

"You have a spymaster at your disposal, do you know that?"

I didn't, but it doesn't matter. For once - I'm winning. And even without punches. I have an argument he can't counter.

"He was Loghain's spymaster, I don't trust him. But I trust you."

And then, when having won the argument (is it wrong to gloat? probably... but I still will) I leave him to his packing (just not for Antiva - it will never be Antiva on my lifetime, and he'd better know that), he says: "You make a fine king, Alistair. Stop fretting."  
And I guess, I will.


End file.
